The Space in Between
by ifwednesdaywasaflowerchild
Summary: A series of one-shots, snapshots, really of those moments in Callen and Nell's relationship. Pre-established Nallen, but I will specify if it is before they get together. Mostly fluff, maybe some smut if I'm feeling brave, and a little angst when I'm feeling like I need to take things down a notch. Author formerly known as RobertDowneyJrLove
1. Short

Nell Jones is short.

Not an inch over five feet and it is so amusingly adorable to Callen because when he kisses her - which is often, when they're alone - she tilts up on the very tips of her toes like a ballerina, steadies herself with small hands on his broad shoulders, and grins at her accomplishment. Like, she's doing now. She's not even at eye level with him; she's looking at his nose, actually, but she doesn't care.

"Y'know," hooded blue eyes stare down at the petite red-head. "I kind of like that you're not tall."

"Why?" Nell's face scrunches up in what she feels is righteous confusion. Because, she'd love to be tall like Kensi, to have never ending legs, and a body that was the cause of every guy's wet dream.

"Because," he bends her backwards slightly, arms wrapped tight around her, forcing her to lower herself back down. "You fit."

He kisses her.

It's slow and deep and warm and she presses closer, fisting his shirt in her hands. And, all fantasies of being some tall statuesque agent like Kensi fly out of the window. As long as she fits with him, that's all that matters.


	2. Lost

"- Well, if you'd just ask for damn directions!" his mercedes passes the same sign for the fifth time and his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

"I don't need directions, Jones!" Callen finally settles on the only retort he can think of; even if it is petulant as hell.

"Oh? Then why aren't we there?" it's all knives and fire; sharp and hot and plunging straight in the gut. "If you'd call Sam and ask, we'd get there instead of passing the same pine tree for the sixth time!"

Callen growls.

Nell adjusts her sunglasses, tightens her ponytail, and digs the heels of her boots into the mats. If only to keep from putting them where she'd really like to; up Callen's stubborn ass.

Five minutes pass.

"Nell?"

"What?"

"Call Sam."


	3. Binary

G. Callen is not a string of binary code.

He's not a bunch of zeroes and ones strung together to form something. He's not quite that simple - hell, Sam Hanna can vouch for that. He comes from a long string of people who were never quite who they said they were and he's done well to maintain that. Never settles, never makes a commitment to anything that can't be packed up and moved whenever the mood strikes him.

It only took her one case, working in the field with him, to figure out that he's not a code for her to crack with a few strokes of the keys on her keyboard. He's much more. He's the encryption you have to spend a little time with. You have to take it slow and get rid of the baggage; all that extra security that's useless against the right hacker. You have to decrypt it slowly or you risk destroying it.

No.

G. Callen is _not_ binary.

He is Nell's favorite encryption.


	4. Master

He's a jack-of-all-trades kind of guy.

Never masters a damn thing, because having a bunch of probably useless skills, is more interesting for him than mastering one thing. It's not even that he grows bored easily, but his chronic insomnia meant he had a lot of time to explore. Hobbies, skills, trades, etc. He hates all of them but he knows the basics.

He's put that damn ship in a bottle, watched baseball (he got bored, fell asleep, _and_ spilled his expensive beer), and taken every appliance apart that he owns. Which is, admittedly, not that many. There is one thing, he is considerably better at than others, and if it were a skill marketable anywhere other than NCIS, he'd be a master.

Never being who you think he is.

He has that in _spades._


	5. Grisha A Nikolaev - M

"Grisha..." is mumbled into the damp skin of her shoulder, one sticky July morning, when the smell of smoke and chlorine clings to her hair and his sheets.

"Gri'ha."

She tests it out, rolls it around her mouth, lets it tumble out in a sleepy mess of syllables. Feels his stubble on her shoulder and the vibration of his laughter against her back. He lifts his cheek and turns his face into the back of her neck, pressing kisses into the skin.

"Grisha Aleksandrovich Nikolaev." he lets his full name roll off of his tongue. "It's my name."

Glassy hazel eyes look at him over a pale, freckled shoulder. "It's your name."

"I've known for a while." his hips shift, legs tangling with hers. "Hetty was the first to know. I didn't mean to keep it a secret from you but - "

"We weren't us, yet." she understands far better than he does. "We were Callen and Nell. We were friends. We weren't us, yet. Knowing your full name after years of not knowing, you need to process that."

"I kept the Callen, though. It was my mother's name. As much as I am my father, I am more so my mother." he sighs, closing his eyes. "I miss her, Nell."

"It's normal," she lifts her hips up into his. "G."

His hand slips under her, cupping a heavy breast, rolling a nipple until it's firm in his palm. She arches, spine curving against his torso, and rests on her hands and knees beneath him. His shirt - the one she stole for the sole purpose of sleeping in - is bunched around her hips, revealing the soft blue cotton of her panties. He shifts forward, pressing into her.

"Yes." a hiss of air between her teeth.

A slight movement, dragging the hard ridge of his erection against her through their underwear, drawing a sound from her, he never thought he'd hear. A whimper. It's enough to make him do it again.

"God, _Grisha._ "

Shit.

It's not the way she says him name, all sexy and soft and breathy, but the fact that she used his full name. _Grisha._ A name he never thought anybody would actually use - hell, Sam and Michelle won't call him that, Kensi and Deeks don't, and Hetty hasn't. But here she is. Kneeling before him on his bed, groaning his name in pleasure.

He's throbbing, now.

Hard and ready and insistent and before she can even blink, one hand is in her hair and the other is tearing her underwear down her thighs. He barely pulls his own boxers down before he's buried inside of her, moving frantically and tugging her hair, until they're both falling fast and hard over the edge.

She screams his name.

 _"Grisha!"_


	6. Today's Fantasy, Tomorrow's Reality

"Y'know," she mumbles into his chest, leaving a faint lipstick print on one of the buttons of his expensive Armani shirt. "They're watching."

His laughter vibrates through him, low and warm, a pleasant buzz against her cheek; "Don't worry about them."

"I can't help it." thick, false lashes flutter against her cheekbone; heavy and dark against pale, painted skin. "I feel like they know."

"What is there to know?" his mouth ghosts along her jaw. "You're my wife. I'm dancing with you. Nothing against it."

Except she isn't his wife.

Not really. They're playing pretend for a case. Tomorrow, the facade will drop. The dress will collect dust in Hetty's wardrobe room, the eyelashes will be buried under a pile of makeup wipes in her bathroom trashcan, and the silver wedding set will return to it's velvet cradle in Hetty's desk.

"Stop thinking so hard, Nell." he whispers, mouth brushing the shell of her ear. "I know what tomorrow means. We've still got a while.

Tomorrow means he's back to being Callen. The loss of the wedding band on his finger, the Armani traded for Levis, and the warmth of Nell is lost to the cool, dark room of Ops. So, he holds her tighter, breathes her in, and absorbs her warmth, before he has to give her up.

Tonight is just pretend.

Tomorrow is real.

...

"Hey," Callen catches her as she emerges from the wardrobe room. "Nell."

"Hi."

She's back to herself in a dark blue dress with a tiny floral print, a gray cardigan and matching tights, and black boots that hug her calves. Her hair is still wavy; all of the tight ringlets from the night before having been brushed out. This is _Nell._

"I - um..." his voice is lost between them.

He feels like he's in shock.

Playing pretend had been fun. Having her with him, laughing over a fancy dinner and expensive wine, holding her close in an intimate dance, sleeping in an actual bed with a soft, warm body next to him. It had been _nice_. Now, though, everything is different. So cool and distant and he doesn't know what to do.

"I'm needed up in Ops. I have information." she barely brushes him as she slips past. "I'll see you later, Callen."

Later, up in Ops, while listening to Eric and Nell piece together the clues they need to break the case, he'll check to make sure no one is looking before slipping his thumb over the strip of his bare skin where his "wedding band" sat, not twenty-four hours before. He pays just enough attention to divide the team accordingly and as he's following Sam out, he catches a glimpse of his own longing reflected back.

Nell rubbing the skin where her wedding set had been the night before.

Last night's fantasy was so much sweeter than today's reality.


	7. Getting Her Back

" _Don't_ touch her."

The gun is steady.

She is not.

The chair arms are slick with sweat and she feels it dripping down her neck, and practically gluing her hair to her head. Nell Jones is all tied up; strung up like a damn animal in a net, bound and wrapped in nylon rope that rubs bruises into her skin. She now knows what all those poor sea turtles from those National Geographic documentaries must feel like when they swim into a fishing net. It hurts like hell, and she'll be glad to be free of them. Hell, she'll be glad to be free of this whole shitty situation.

She just wants to go home.

She wants a shower and pajamas and his bed and _him._ She wants one of his old t-shirts and the spicy scent of his cologne clinging to his bare chest. Tears sting her eyes at the thought of being back home with him.

"She's good, Agent Callen. A good girl." it's a thick Greek accent, but it's all over the place. It's something most people don't realize, that accents tend to be specific to certain areas, and he can't seem to decide which part of Greece he'd like to claim he's from. He strokes the back of Nell's head, like he's petting a puppy, and smiles hungrily."She'll make me money."

Callen's eyes close.

He's seen situations like this before; women sold like this, as if everything they are can be summed up in a number. But, the problem is, none of them make it very long. There's always going to be a woman, who seems more valuable than the others, whose price is higher, who brings in more profit because she's blonder, taller, prettier.

"You can't do this. Not today. Not to her." Callen will _not_ let him win this. He will not watch his girl be sold like this. His voice picks up, echoing and loud, a sort of tenderness offsetting the situation at hand. "Nell, I need to hear you."

"Callen, I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's not your fault." Callen reassures her, even as his eyes never leave the man in front of him. He takes a deep breath and steadies himself. "Nell?"

"Yeah?"

"Close your eyes." he orders quietly. "I mean it, Nell. Close your eyes. Don't open them until I tell you to."

Nell's eyes close without another word of protest.

"Callen," Sam's warning drawl comes, even as the gun wavers in his hand - he's more than willing to let his partner do this but..."Don't miss."

"Never have before."

He shrugs away the nervous tension in his shoulders, expression of steel engrained in every feature, and aims his gun right at the suspect's head. The safety's off, suspect's engaged, and he has a clear shot.

 _Bang._

Nell flinches.

Callen's barely even blinked and Sam is already kneeling beside the suspect's body. He releases a breath and rushes over to Nell. The adrenaline and the cortisol have set in and when he kneels to undo the ropes, his fingers are trembling, and he can barely undo the knots.

"I'm alive, G." Nell reminds him quietly. "Breathe."

Inhale. Exhale.

He's got this.

A steel blade with a razor sharp edge makes short work of the restraints. He's never let the knife out of his sight but in this instance, the knife drops onto the concrete floor, and he's up and pulling her into her arms before she's had a chance to even breathe properly.

"Nell," his voice is a breath, lost in her damp hair. "Nell."

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'msorry." her words run together, one sentence stringing into the next until her apology is nothing more than a few mumbled syllables into the comforting warmth of his chest.

"No, Nell. Don't apologize." Callen shakes his head, lips pressed firmly against her forehead. "It's not your fault. It's not your fault. Let's get you to a hospital."

"I just wanna go home."

There's a thousand and one protests leaping into his throat but every single one of them seem invalid with her back in his arms so he offers a compromise; "At least let the medics look at you?"

"Okay."

And, if Sam happens to notice the way G holds her a tighter and the way she clings to him a little more than usual, he says nothing.

It's been a long couple of days.

They need this.


	8. Power

"Square your shoulders."

"What?" She tugs the ear bud from her ear, letting it dangle against her stomach.

"Square your shoulders. It'll help." Callen comes up behind her and tugs her shoulders back. "You have power - correct your form and you'll see just how much."

Nell huffs.

She's a notorious type-A personality, with no interest in being told what to do. Especially by Callen.

"Huff all you want, sweetheart." he's patronizing her. Stupid man. "You know I'm right."

The elbow to his stomach says otherwise.


	9. Dirty

Nell likes to dance.

In the privacy of her home where she's free to look however she pleases - which, at the moment, is as sloppy as possible - she stretches into various positions, calling upon memories of ballet to warm up her muscles before she lets herself do whatever she wants.

She's feeling a little saucy.

A roll of her hips into a dirty grind gets her going and she gyrates to the beat. Her body heats up and before long, her shirt is a pile of white cotton on the floor, leaving her in her bra and boy shorts. She's never been one to prance around in her bra and underwear but she has an audience and she knows it.

He's not reading.

He hasn't been since her meditation music slid into something a little hotter, a little sexier, and her hips started moving. At first, his eyebrow had arched heavenward and his book dropped a few inches from his face. Then, she'd gone a bit further and her t-shirt had come off. The book had hit the floor.

Nell grins.

She knows him.

G. Callen is so turned on, right now, but you'd have a hell of a time getting him to admit it. He's seen some of her sillier dances, twirled her in and out of his arms to a soft melody, laughed as she spun around the kitchen pulling dinner together, and watched her move in a blur of limbs but he's never seen this.

Never seen her grind and roll her hips, never seen her torso move, and her breasts spill over the top of a bra. He's never seen her dance in boy shorts that hug her ass just so. He's never seen this side of her.

"Where - um, where did you learn this?" Callen's fumbling, stuttering and tripping over words, eyes glued to the sensual sway of Nell's soft form.

"I didn't."

Callen swallows.

Hard.

Without another word, she sinks down onto his lap, straddling his hips, and grinding against him in an unfortunately clothed facsimile of something far dirtier. He brings his hands to her hips and his mouth sucks a red mark on her ribs, just below her left breast.

They don't make it to the bedroom.

Hell, Callen's barely got his boxers down before Nell is shoving her underwear aside and sinking down onto him; hot and wet and clenching around him deliciously. It's fast and hard and dirty but both of them are too caught up in it to care.

Just for the record - no, he does not find out how _The Grapes of Wrath_ ends, and he's not terribly sure he cares.


	10. Breakfast

Clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth - Nell Jones pretends not to be bothered when the scent of waffles and maple syrup follows Eric into Ops. It'd just been a damn long time since lunch yesterday - almost twenty-something hours, actually, and she'd really like something more substantial than the stash of Oreos, Eric keeps hidden. She's really not up for rotting her teeth before noon but between the massive amounts of data to mine through until she struck gold and making sure paperwork was distributed to the proper people, she hasn't had time for breakfast. Or, dinner. Or even a snack.

 _No food in Ops._

Brilliant.

Hetty's rule.

With a defeated sigh, she continues mining through the digital life of some asshat, who decided a military fundraiser was a good place to test out his homemade explosive device. Needless to say, he'd be in handcuffs before the day ended - if only so Nell can catch a long enough to sneak away for food.

The doors slide open and, without even looking, she knows it's Callen. Not only are his footsteps lighter than anyone else's - Kensi, included - but his cologne is different. Sam tends to bring the smell of fresh, white soap with him while Kensi is vanilla and something, and Deeks' cologne of choice is saltwater.

"Callen, do you need something?" her fingers never pause over the keyboard.

Eric's head tilts as for all he knew, she hadn't looked to see who came into Ops, but Callen seems unphased, used to it, apparently. "Actually, I do." he turns back to Eric. "Can you take over for her for a while?"

"Sure. But, why?"

"Because," he makes his way over to Nell. "She hasn't eaten since lunch, yesterday."

"I'm fine, Callen." Nell insists, even though her stomach is screaming at her to let him take her to get something to eat. "I have a lot of work to do."

"Work that Eric can handle while you eat." Callen reaches around to take one of her hands. "Come on, Jones. Up. Let Eric do it."

"Callen - "

"Nell." his voice is stern, hand slipping to wrap around her wrist. "I know you. You get hungry and you get distracted. Come on, now. Me and Sam are going to breakfast, and you're coming with us."

It's useless to argue with him.

Despite wanting to grit her teeth and push through, she already knows Callen won't hear of it, so she gives in and stands up from her chair. Eric wastes no time in taking over her job, even with his own work to do. Callen releases his wrist and takes her by the elbow, guiding her out of Ops, and down to the bullpen to meet Sam. She tries really hard not to think about how nice it feels to have contact with something other than a computer. But, Callen is warm and strong and there and she feels a little more cared for than she might have up in Ops with Eric.

…

The diner is a mutual favorite of Sam and Callen's and she sees at least three different things she wants to try as G is guiding her to his usual booth. She's tucked between him and the wall with Sam on the opposite side. While it's not something that she would usually think about, it does occur to her to wonder if he ever brought Anna Kolchek here.

She can sort of picture it without gagging but contemplating it beyond a simple breakfast is almost enough to make her lose her appetite. Anna would have looked like a damn supermodel, so very out of place, sitting by a window with the sun slipping like liquid gold through her blonde waves.

"I can hear the gears, Nell." there's that damn smirk and those blue eyes twinkling with mirth. "What's on your mind?"

"D- did you ever bring Anna here?"

Hazel eyes stare up at him curiously, tracing the line of his jaw, wanting to laugh at the twitch of discomfort her question brings with it, but holding back. In her peripheral vision, Sam shakes with silent laughter.

"Yeah, G, you ever bring Anna here?" he contributes when his laughter is under control.

"No." he grits his teeth. "This isn't really Anna's thing. I wasn't either."

Oh.

Anna Kolchek must be a newly acquired sore spot. If she's being honest, Nell can't say she has much sympathy for him. The younger Kolchek always struck her as a gold-digger. That's not to say she didn't have any good qualities - she was useful, when she wanted to be - but when it came to relationships, she didn't seem to want anything that wasn't superficial.

Before anything more can be said, the waitress comes around with a pad and pen, ready to take their orders back to the kitchen. Much to his surprise, Nell asks Callen to order for her. It might be nothing to some people, but to them, it's a show of trust on her part. The conversation is minimal while they wait for the food to arrive because Nell's exhausted and hungry and barely able to function.

...

Sam's breakfast is little more than scrambled eggs, whole grain toast, and a bright mixture of citrus and melon while Callen's gone for the heartier waffles, it is Nell, who practically salivates at the sight in front of her. Two sizable buttermilk biscuits smothered in thick, peppered white gravy, with a side of bacon and hashbrowns. It is something her Mom would make on a frosty, drowsy Sunday morning, and she almost can't help the tears that fill her eyes.

"Nell?" it is Sam, who notices it first. "You alright, baby girl?"

"Nell?"

"I'm sorry." she laughs it off, swiping at her eyes in a futile attempt to dry them. "It's just - "

"Just what?" Callen questions softly.

"My Mom used to make breakfasts just like this on Sundays." she explains quietly, looking up at Callen. "And, I'm tired and hungry and I got a little homesick for a minute."

"It's okay." G. reaches for her hand under the table, lacing their fingers together.

It's comfortable, feeling his large, warm hand wrap around her smaller one. Feeling the tight interlock of their fingers. It's nice to have contact that isn't the awkward hugs or high-fives that Eric prefers, but rather, actual physical contact with someone she doesn't feel strange sharing such a small space with.

They eat in relative silence.

Although Sam does notice that Callen's right hand appears to be otherwise occupied as does Nell's left, but he wisely chooses to keep quiet on the matter. Whatever's going on between them, wherever they take their relationship is up to them.

Of course, he's anything but quiet when they finally tell the team, six months later, that they are seeing each other and quite happy. Both Sam and Deeks are rather quick with their exclamations of it being, "About damn time!" and Kensi just laughs and says, "God help you, Nell!" Callen couldn't even be offended at that.

For the record, and for any man who dare claim otherwise (Deeks), Sam Hanna would, hereby, like to state that he bore witness to the beginning of the relationship.

It started with breakfast.


	11. Ponytail

On rare days, usually when she has to venture out into the field, Nell wears her hair in a ponytail. Callen isn't terribly sure he likes her choice of hairstyle on those days because he can't really tangle his fingers in it when they sneak kisses over lunch of during breaks.

Although.

He _does_ so enjoy the sexy tousled way it falls around her shoulders when she deconstructs the tight style. Maybe, just maybe, he could persuaded to enjoy the occasional ponytail.


	12. Risk

His fingers tangle in tousled red hair and a deep sigh escapes her. She's deliciously warm and sleepy and he's nestled up against her back, hips tucked against hers, fingers drifting idly through her hair. She isn't quite as feverish as the day before but her sinuses still ache and she's had to hug a pillow to make coughing less painful. Breathing is a bit of a struggle and she isn't all that crazy about the other aches and pains that have come with this sinus infection.

"I want to go to work." her type-A personality is clashing with her body's desire to rest and fight off the infection. "I want to be busy."

"You can't." Callen slips his arm around her waist, tugging her closer. "You're sick, Nell."

Nell huffs.

She's tired - exhausted, even. The doctor diagnosed her with a sinus infection, ordered her home into bed with fluids and antibiotics, and gave Callen strict instructions to keep an eye on her.

"You're going to get it." Nell grumbles, rolling over to nuzzle into his chest.

"I'll be fine." he laughs into her hair, letting his hand drift down the back of her neck and along her shoulder blades. "I don't get sick very easily."

And, anyway, she was worth it. Oh, sure, Hetty wouldn't like it very much if he were to come down with a sinus infection, but Callen's a risk-taker and this - being in bed, cuddling with her - is worth the risk of getting sick.


	13. Joelle

Joelle knows almost before Callen does. It doesn't take much to figure it out. His feelings were straying elsewhere and why wouldn't they? After all, it's not as if she'd been warm and friendly lately. She hadn't exactly been receptive to his affections. Pardon her. She just needed more time to process who her supposed boyfriend actually was. She wasn't sure she'd ever process it.

And as faithful as he was, she could tell he was getting tired of her frosty mood. She's tired of it, too. She just doesn't know what to do about it. And, she's seen him interact with someone over the phone. A woman, by the sounds of it. Whoever it was obviously made him happy on some level because whenever she called him into work, he always smiled so fondly when speaking with her.

To be honest, she figures it out by accident. He stays the night at her place, despite not sleeping - she regrets letting it happen, really. She does have to get up early. But, she knows he must be tinkering his way through another night when she wakes up at three in the morning to find the sheets cold. Not that he had a side of the bed to speak of. Either way, he's not there, so she hauls herself out of bed and pads down the hall, rubbing her eyes sleepily as she followed a now audible noise.

Music and someone's voice.

She hears him. He's laughing gleefully and talking animatedly but not to himself. She stays in the shadows and watches him. Laying on the couch, TV blaring some infomercial, and his cell phone pressed to his ear.

"- I'm telling you, Nell, no juice should be that color.

Pause.

"Yeah, try telling Sam, that. Acai is his new thing."

Another pause. Laughter.

"No. Way." Longer pause. "Because juice is a fad."

Laughter.

Infomercial plays a few more seconds.

"Okay, Nell. But, don't think I didn't see those Oreos up in OPS, this morning."

Whoever Nell is must have a hell of a comeback because Callen is almost bursting at the seams with laughter.

"And, if you keep at it, you'll rot your teeth."

Not that his diet of take-out and beer was any better. Nor would Joelle ever mention that to him.

"Look, all I'm saying is you drink coffee and eat Oreos. That's all I've ever seen you eat."

He sighs. Waits a beat. The infomercial ends.

"You don't come out with the team, anymore."

Another sigh.

"Okay. What about tomorrow? We'll go to that Thai place on fifth."

Pause.

"No - but, you do." Callen's smile is different. So much softer and more sincere than she's ever seen when he's with her. "Nell. Please? I miss you."

Joelle's eyes sting with tears. He never told her he missed her - at least, not in any genuine context. Not when he was being honest with her. Even now, she's struggling to filter out when he's lying and when he's telling the truth.

"I will eat Thai food if you're there." he laughs merrily, and it only makes the sting worsen. "I'd do anything for you, sweetheart."

 _Sweetheart._

That didn't seem very much like Callen. Not the one she knew. But, who did she really know? She's just not sure, anymore. But, she does know one thing. She's not with G. Callen. Not the real one. Who he is with her is just an act. The real Callen is laying on the couch talking to the woman he really wants to be with.

No.

Joelle doesn't know him. Not really. But, she does know one thing. He deserves to be happy, and whoever Nell is - she is the one who makes him happy. And, she's tired of holding onto him when neither of them really want this relationship. She doesn't listen to anymore of their conversation. She doesn't need to hear it.

She already knows what she has to do.


	14. Smudge

There's a faint smudge of lipstick on his thumb.

Dark red pigments settled into the lines of his fingerprint. And, in the soft warmth of the morning sun, he can take a moment to remember how it got there. The drag of his thumb over her kiss-swollen lips, feeling the catch, and how the smooth wax of her lipstick had smudged so easily underneath the tender press of his mouth and his finger. He's certain there will be matching smudges on his own mouth and down his collarbone, calling up memories of how he'd given up control, despite his need for it.

There are faint smudges of lipstick on his person.

But, the memories of how they got there are crystal clear.


	15. Wild Horses AU

It happens in a split second.

At least, he thinks it does. He'd invited Nell over a cup of coffee after a long day of shuffling horses, helping with chores, and annoying the hell out of her simply because he found it amusing. And, she shows up looking too adorable for words with her jeans tucked into her boots, hair tucked away underneath a hat, and a thin gray cardigan over her flimsy white tank top.

She jogs up the steps onto the porch and he just about loses it when he catches a mouth-watering glimpse of her ass in those jeans.

"Hi!"

Somewhere, deep in the hell-bound pits of his subconscious, Grisha _knows_ he shouldn't think about her the way he does. She is nineteen to his thirty-five _and_ she is his boss' daughter. But, dammit all, if he doesn't want to pin her to the porch railing and see if he can pull the breath from her lungs.

"Hi Nell." the porcelain mug is still steaming with freshly brewed coffee when he holds it out to her. "Coffee?"

"Thanks." but, even she can't ignore it.

The spark when she touches him. It shouldn't be there. She shouldn't be in love with a man sixteen years older but she is. And, she'd love nothing more than to rip his clothes off and show him just what he does to her.

"Long day, huh?" Grisha offers a little small talk to redirect their attention. "You worked your ass off, today."

"Yeah, well, Lexington's not the calmest horse." Nell laughs, dropping down in the porch swing. "He's like Xander. Crazy when he's angry."

"Did something spook him?"

"Yeah." Nell nods, looking down at her cup of coffee. "Me."

"You?" Grisha's eyebrows knit together in confusion. "Nell, you're like the damn horse whisperer. Doctor Doolittle wishes he could do what you do."

Nell shrugs, "Had an off day."

"Nell."

Dammit.

That stupid drawl. She could _not_ tell him things if he wouldn't pull that drawl out and use it against her. In the last three weeks he's been working on the ranch, she'd found herself telling him things even her brothers didn't know and he'd told her things his best friend would never find out.

"I was distracted. Approached him on the right, instead of the left." Nell flushes deep scarlett. "It spooked him."

"Now," he sets the coffee cup down on the porch railing and moves to kneel in front of her. "What would have you so distracted, you approach a horse from the wrong side?"

She fumbles with her coffee cup, tightening her grip on it until her knuckles whiten. His hand is warm around her wrist, thumb scraping along her pulse until the words come out of her throat. "You."

"Me?"

"Yes." her big hazel eyes are glassy, and her voice is thick. "You. I've been thinking about you a lot, lately. Very irrational of me."

"Not irrational." Grisha corrects softly, hooking his other hand under her chin to tilt her face up to meet his eyes. "Human. Not everything is rational, Nell. It doesn't have to be."

"You're the most rational person, I know." Nell murmurs.

"I'm also a drifter." he can't help but laugh a little. "I live like a gypsy. These past three weeks on this ranch - this is the longest I've stayed in one place. This is the most stability I've had since I was a kid."

"Is that a bad thing?" she wonders quietly.

"No." his hand is on her cheek, now, thumb running the bridge of her nose and under her eye. "Not at all. It's the best thing I've had in a long while. Thanks to you."

"Me?"

He shifts onto his knees and she unconsciously opens hers to allow him in between them. "You are the best part of this ranch, Nell." they're ever so slightly closer now, foreheads almost touching. "You have to know that, by now. I'd have left the first day if not for you."

"Callen..."

"Call me, Grisha."

His eyes, those beautiful baby blues, are heavy and his mouth is open. Both of them are breathing differently, heavier, deeper, and they both know what's coming. It shouldn't. They know they shouldn't but they can't deny what's been building for the last three weeks. When the air fried with tension and when they'd almost kissed after a close encounter in one of the stalls before a spirited stallion interrupted by trying to snack on Nell's hair.

"Nell."

His voice is swallowed by her kiss. They both make a vague noise of relief because _oh dear God._ It feels even better than either one of them could have imagined. Three weeks of tension. Of petty arguments, silly bickering, and silently flirting over supper at her parents' table. It's all there and it has them both desperate for more. He pushes her back, groping for whatever part of the swing he can reach. She wraps her arms around his neck and pulls him closer.

It's clumsy and messy but it's _theirs._

In a move that's a little more desperation than coordination, Grisha slings an arm around her back, and hauls them both up. They barely part for air before he's turning on his heel and pinning her to the railing. Nell is tugging his shirt from his pants and fumbling with his belt when the reality of it crashes in like a hurricane.

"Nell," oh, how he wants to, but her parents would kill him. Like, actually murder him for messing around with their daughter - their baby girl. So, he pushes her hands away and takes a huge step back. "We can't."

"Why not?" Nell yelps in protest. "We're adults, Callen. We can do whatever we want."

"You're nineteen and I'm thirty-five!" Callen's voice is a low growl, shaky, and a little weak because _dammit_ he wants this girl. "Your parents would kill me."

"I'm legal, Callen. I can do what I want." Nell argues, crossing her arms over her chest. "I don't _need_ their permission. If I want to have sex with a guy, I will. They can't do much about it."

"Nell - "

"So, you're thirty-five, who the hell cares?" she cuts him off angrily. "I don't! You think I don't know the kind of looks we'd get? Small town like this, people talk. I don't care!"

But, sixteen years. That's one hell of an age difference and it terrifies him to think that he could bring shame on her family for messing with a girl so much younger than him. Nobody is going to brush it off, not even if it is love. They're going to talk about _"that Jones girl"_ and he could never subject her to that.

"I can't subject you to what people are gonna say. I can't subject your family to what people would say about you!"

Her eyes sting.

Nell can see clearly, now, just how wrong she was to ever think he didn't care what people thought. That seems to be all he cares about and it makes him sound scared of her, just like every other guy she's tried to go out with. It's exhausting and she wants him to know so. "I'm tired, Callen."

"Of what?" his voice is softer, now. "Why are you tired?"

"Every guy I try to go out with is scared me." she looks down at the film of dust covering her boots, eyes tracing the pattern in-laid on the dirty leather. "They don't want to be with me because I come with baggage. Nobody mess with the Jones girl. Her father will kill you. Those were the excuses I got in high school. Or, some variation."

"Nell, I'm not - "

"But, you sounded that way." she releases a shaky sigh. "It's okay, really. I'm used to it. Too much baggage."

"That's not it." Callen grabs her chin and tilts her head up to meet her eyes. "You don't come with too much baggage. That's what I bring to the table. Your name means nothing to me. But, you're young, Nell. I'm used to it. I've heard it all before. You - you'd be called things. Things a girl like you should never be called."

"I want you more than I care about this shitty little town." Nell growls, voice low and dangerous. "I don't care about names, Callen. I don't care what they'll call me. I want you."

"I want you, too."

"Then, do something about it."

And, he does.

* * *

 **So, you may have noticed that I pulled this for a time. That is because I thought I wanted this to form a separate story but I'm not sure that's going to happen so I'm going to re-post this and if it ever becomes anything more...it'll just happen.**


	16. His Quartermaster

"- Should be relatively simple. Intel extraction, no weapons needed." Nell drops a silver thumb drive into Sam's waiting palm and reaches for G's weapon, plucking the glock from its holster on his hip.

"Hey!"

"There are going to be lots of foreign dignitaries at this event." she explains, turning the safety on, and tucking it into the back of her jeans. "If they see even the smallest sign of trouble, they will ask questions that you won't have answers too."

"What intel are we looking for exactly?" Sam questions, pocketing the drive.

"You aren't looking for anything." Nell corrects him, "All you have to do is plug the thumb drive in and I will do the rest."

"Classified?" G's eyebrows arch heavenward.

"Need to know." Oh, here it comes - the intelligence analyst has never been particularly good at biting her tongue. "Which is to say, I need to know and you don't."

Callen looks vaguely offended but whether it's at Nell's biting comment or Sam's inability to hold his laughter for a more appropriate time is unclear. Nevertheless, the small redhead points behind her, where Hetty and her tailor of the week - some unfortunate soul from Spain, who loathes Kensi because of a silk disaster the day before - wait in wardrobe.

"Gentleman, your tuxedos await!" her wry grin earns her a sharp glare from Callen and an eyeroll from Sam.

...

The tuxedo is sharply tailored, fitting snug while still allowing freedom of movement and room to breathe, and even Deeks had conceded that he looked damn good. Having said that, G. Callen still feels like some sort of zoo animal on display in such expensive threads. He's never been comfortable in expensive clothes; worn in denim jeans and threadbare cotton shirts were more his style.

In a room full of foreign dignitaries, his tuxedo faded into the background. A sea of black and white made it impossible to distinguish one country's dignitary from another, if not for their dates. Women serving as little more than sparkling embellishments on the arms of men, who don't care to even learn their names.

"I need a date." Callen's mumble is poorly concealed, as he elbows through tailored tuxes and skin tight dresses to get to the bar. "Nell, why am I the only one here without a date?"

Sam hangs his head in silent laughter, slipping through the crowd to find the computers where the intel is.

"Because, Kensi is busy." Nell retorts calmly, fingers hovering over her keyboard. "Agent Hanna, you'll need to make a left turn in about three doors."

"Thanks, Nell."

"You could do it." G. grins over the rim of a room temperature martini - didn't these people know how to refrigerate alcohol? "It'd be nice to see you all dressed up for once."

"I'm not your Bond girl, Agent Callen." Nell snaps back, turning her attention back to Sam. "Turn right, Agent Hanna. Second door on your left."

"Got it."

"I never said you were." Callen is calm - too calm.

"Isn't that what a Bond girl does?" Nell's tone is still brackish, rough, because she will not be seen as a woman who is only useful to a man because she's pretty. "Hang off the arm of the sexy, blue-eyed agent while he sips a martini and waits for trouble?"

Sam splutters in the dark silence of the study, Nell's directions have led him to. Callen struggles not to choke on his martini but quickly regains his compsure and offers her a snappy retort. "Actually, in most of the Bond films, the girl is working for the bad guy."

"Like who?"

"Fatima Blush from Never Say Never Again or Elektra King from the World is Not Enough." his mouth tilts in a satisfied smirk. "So, are you working for my enemy?"

"Is Hetty an enemy?" Nell raises an auburn eyebrow.

"Sometimes."

"I'm sure she would beg to differ, Agent." Nell's fingers fly across the keyboard, searching for strings of code. "Agent Hanna, thirty seconds."

"Got it." both Nell and Callen can practically hear Sam's shit-eating grin. "If you two want to continue your little game, feel free."

"You want to keep digging that hole for yourself, Agent Callen?" Nell questions, still mining through layers of encrypted data for the intel they need.

"No hole here." he finishes off his martini in a single swallow. "I know what you are, Nell. You're not the Bond girl."

"Oh?" Nell's eyebrows, once again, arch heavenward - oh, this, she can't wait to hear.

"No, you're too smart for that." Callen grins, "You're my Quartermaster."

Quartermaster.

The genius behind the scenes. The creator of the technology and the weaponry that will be of the most use to double-oh-seven in his mission. The only person brilliant enough with computers to access and decrypt classified intel, even that which is only accessible to a few people in the world.

"The Quartermaster never did field work." she can't help but grin a little, even as she issues sharp orders to Sam. "Okay, Agent Hanna. I'm done. Remove the drive and get out of there. Pick up Callen and leave the party."

"Got it."

"No, but Q always had the skills to do so." Callen reminds her. "And, the quartermaster probably could have killed Bond, if they were so inclined."

"Is that a challenge?" Oh, now it's getting fun.

"Not unless you want it to be." he slides his gold card across the bar with a sharp nod for the bartender to settle his tab - but, really, it wasn't even a good martini, how much could it be?

"I still have your glock, Agent Callen." Nell's mouth tilts vaguely upwards.

Well.

That was an important detail he forgot about. She had taken his gun before he was forced into a penguin suit. Deft hands had plucked it from his hip holster and tucked into the back of her jeans, settling it in that curve in the small of her back.

"Even Bond had to relinquish his weapon." Callen finds Sam in the crowd easily, falling behind him as they make a swift and tidy exit from the party. "We're out. Headed back to Ops, now."

"Bye, double-oh-seven."

"Bye, _Q._ "

...

"You know," Nell's all breath, tilting her head to give him better access. "I don't think Bond ever seduced his Quartermaster."

"He never had you." Callen rumbles, teeth sinking into her neck. "Probably a good thing. I don't share."

Nell just moans, fingers tangling in his hair - bless him, he's growing it out, again. He likes the way she tastes, the way she smells, and he shifts closer, pressing her a little further into her apartment door, eager for more.

"Hetty'll kill you for ruining this tux." Nell breathes, tossing her head back against the door.

"Live and let die."


	17. Could Have Been Her

It's one in the morning when the case finally closes with a gun battle for the ages. Vests riddled with bullets are dumped unceremoniously into the back of the challenger, a pile of metal and velcro and kevlar to be dealt with at a later time. The ringleader of a nasty human trafficking ring is currently zipped up in a body bag, ready for transport to the nearest morgue.

And, more than a dozen women are being taken to the hospital where they'll be given access to a hot shower, an IV of fluids and vitamins for any deficiencies, and a half-decent meal that's probably better than anything they've had since they went missing. They'll have to answer some uncomfortable questions, have photos taken, and swabbed in places too difficult to think about but they were safe and free and that's all that mattered.

One of them had been a redhead; a tiny little slip of a thing, no bigger than Nell, curled up in one corner of the warehouse, sobbing into her bound wrists. Nothing was said when Callen all but growled that he'd help her.

They all knew.

Maybe, it was the red hair, or the big eyes, or the smallness of her but something about her had been so much like Nell, it would have seemed wrong for anyone but Callen to help her. He'd cut the rope from her wrists, sheathed his knife, and scooped her up in his arms, carrying her out of her disgusting prison.

It clings to him, all the way to Ops. That girl. He'd never caught her name, just glimpses of her big eyes, shiny with tears, and the halo of red when the ambulance lights flashed across her face. He hadn't felt a physical attraction to her. It hadn't been anything of the sort. She was a beautiful but broken reminder of the woman waiting for him.

The woman, who has been wearing the same jeans for three days, and his hoodie for the last day and a half. The woman who sacrificed sleep to tirelessly crack codes, dig up names and information, and make sure the team could keep going in the midst of this tragic nightmare of a case.

There is no storming in like, maybe, there would be had the case not ended well. No loping in triumphantly with bright smiles because the case ended the way they hoped. Instead, it's a chain of heartbroken agents, somber and exhausted.

She's waiting at the bottom of the stairs for them, half-asleep, and ready to get the hell out of there and go home.

Callen's eyes blur. God. It could have been her. She could have been the tiny redhead. The one trembling in a corner, wrists bloody, and her throat raw. She could have been the one reduced to the frightened whimpers of a child when he picked her up. His stomach twists violently at the thought. It could have been anyone, really. Any woman deemed worthy but not all women reminded him of Nell.

It's really no surprise when he reaches her first, snatching her up in a hug that nearly lifts her off of the ground. His hands find her hair, and his mouth claims hers before the rest of the team can speak to her.

Later, he'll apologize for the utility belt still around his waist, pressing the handle of his knife into her stomach and all of the other tactical gear, they hadn't taken off, yet. He just needed reassurance that she is there. With him.

Every case came with something that would stay with the agents. A broken family with a father that reminded Deeks' a little too much of his own, or a kid learning how to make it on her own that made Kensi feel like she was looking in a mirror. Or, a witness that just wouldn't let themselves be put into protective custody. Something. And, this is what will stay with Callen.

That it could have been her.


	18. Why He Did (future Nallen)

"So," a string of code results in an entire paragraph of binary data for her to mine through but her hopes of having plans encourages her to mine through it. "Uh, movie night?"

"Can't." is Eric's vague, distant return, followed by a piss-poor excuse. "Night surfing with Deeks."

But, she knows that Deeks has no such plans of going night surfing, as he conferred with her a mere three days ago, seeking reservations so that he might surprise his precious Kensilina for her birthday.

"Oh." she glances down at her hands, hung over the keyboard; reluctance clashing terribly with the urge to call him out on his blatant lie. "Y'know, I just remembered, Callen needs my help closing a case file, anyway, so I shouldn't have asked."

He didn't, really.

Callen is in Glendale, giving a statement to ATF regarding Anna's shooting of Sokolov, but it's apparent Eric doesn't care, as he simply shrugs, lets his chair roll away, and heads for the conference table just as the doors slide open and Harley Hidoko slips into Ops, calling Eric's attention to a picture of the latest victim.

" - the pixelation made it a little difficult to get it through facial recognition but, I think I have a name." Eric is explaining, when Nell tunes into the conversation. "Marissa Earhart. Believed to be a distant relative of missing pilot Amelia Earhart."

It's not his explanation of the digging that _she_ had done, nor is it his blatant lie that stings, though it certainly did it's fair share of pain infliction. It isn't even Harley Hidoko, or Eric Beale, individually. It is witnessing them together; a hand on his shoulder, here, or a gentle punch to the arm, there. Casual, flirtatious winks when she compliments him.

" - right, so, I checked, and she has no connections to either of the first two victims." he's rambling, when Nell bothers to tune back into the conversation, but it doesn't seem to bother Hidoko. "But, she was briefly involved with the third. It didn't last long, six months according to social media, but worth asking about, anyway."

"Thanks, Eric."

"Of course, Harley." Eric winks, touching her shoulder briefly as she turned to leave Ops.

Hidoko gives him a brilliant, _affectionate_ smile as she slips away, new intel tucked safely away in her memory for regurgitation to Kensi and Deeks. And, in that brief moment, in the flash of the agent's grin, the pieces click into place, and reality becomes alarmingly clear.

Nell sees it.

While she hadn't been absolutely sure _it_ meant anything, she definitely, without a shadow of a doubt, knew what _it_ was, and she knew ignoring it wouldn't make it magically disappear. Doesn't make it hurt, any less, she supposes, though, his honesty about the whole thing might have made a bit of a difference.

He could have told her - told her that it wasn't her fault, that he didn't anticipate it, that...that Harley Hidoko seduced him. He could have given her any number of excuses, and when their relationship was still new, when the awkward newness of a first kiss still lingered, she might have believed him but not now. Maybe, it wasn't her fault, maybe he didn't anticipate it, but he sure as hell didn't try to stop it, and she knew that Harley had seduced him, unintentional though it might have been.

Her brilliance had done it, in tandem with her bad-assery. And, she was something different - new. She was beautiful and smart and confident and strong and _not_ Nell. She had that certain spark in her eyes when Eric was being a dork, or when she got to work with him, and Nell didn't miss the difference in him. A new warmth in his eyes, a confidence in him when he had Hidoko on his side, and always a smile for the agent. Nell almost doesn't blame Eric, but in a way, she does because he didn't have to fall for Harley, even if she can see a thousand different reasons why he would.

Why he _did._

...

"You look like hell."

"Joy as always, Nate." Nell grumbles, sinking into the booth across from him. She drops her messenger bag at her feet and subtly slips her foot through the strap to loop it around her ankle. "Did I interrupt something?"

"No." Nate shakes his head, eyeing the analyst. Something is off, clearly, but what? Was she having trouble at work? Had something happened? "You okay? I mean clearly you called because you need to talk but is something specific bothering you? You really do look like you've been through the ringer."

"It's Eric."

"What happened?" Nate tilts his head, inviting her to open up. "Are you two dating, now?"

"I thought so but..." Nell wanders off, trying to gather her thoughts. "But, he lied to me, earlier, and didn't notice when I lied right back."

"What did he lie about?" the psychologist is genuinely curious what Eric Beale could lie about; the Tech Operator seemed physically incapable of lying, especially to Nell.

"I asked him if he wanted to have a movie night and he said he was going night surfing with Deeks." Nell explains softly.

"And?"

"And, Deeks has plans with Kensi. He's taking her out for her birthday. I helped him make the reservations, last week." she sinks a little further into the vinyl seat, eyebrows knitting together in building confusion and frustration. "And, then when I told him that I had to help Callen with a case file, he didn't even catch me in the lie. Callen's in Glendale for Anna's ATF hearing."

Well, that is unusual.

Generally, if one was trying to lie, the other caught it, and shut it down but if Eric didn't catch Nell's lie, even though he knew Callen was in Glendale, then something else, or maybe someone else has called his attention elsewhere. And, Nate knows Nell well enough to know that she's already suspected what, or who, it could be. "What, or who, do you think has thrown him off his game?"

"Hidoko."

"The new agent that came in with Mosley?" Nate raises an eyebrow, neutralizing his expression when Nell only offers a thoroughly unamused nod. "What makes you say that?"

"The way they act around each other." Nell shrugs, eyes wandering to the brilliant sunshine of Los Angeles. "The way he acts around Hidoko is how he used to act around me before we started whatever it is, we have."

"Are you sure it isn't just a harmless crush?" Nate wonders if, maybe, she's exaggerating.

"Was it a harmless crush with me?" she's quick to point, lifting an eyebrow at the psychologist.

"Fair point." Nate concedes. There's one point that he's reluctant to bring up but he knows he has too. "Is your relationship with Callen harmless?"

"Relationship? Callen is - " Nell protests but she _knows._ Just like she knows with Eric. It's not harmless.

"A friend, yes, I know. Callen says the same thing."

"You talked to him?" she seems to settle at that, eyes softening at the corner, where crow's feet appear when she's riled up.

"Yes. He and I speak regularly. He seems quite fond of you, _Nellverine."_ Nate teases her - he'd spoken to Callen, not two hours ago, actually.

"Dammit." a barely audible hiss.

"It's really quite simple, Nell." a shrug of broad shoulders; she hates when he does that, because it's supposed to be casual, _easy,_ and his reasons for doing so are rarely ever as such. "You can either confront Eric about his feelings for Hidoko and face some hard truths about where you two are, or you can live in denial until one of you breaks. But, stringing each other along isn't healthy. You've had a toxic relationship, you should know all about that."

It pains to her admit it, especially with such a dominant Type-A personality, but Nate Getz is right. Her friendship with Callen, or whatever it is, is as harmless as she perceives Eric's relationship with Hidoko to be; which is to say, not at all.

"Nell?"

"I need to talk to Eric."


End file.
